Wordlessly
by Silverwind24
Summary: AU ten years later, Jack regrets allowing Will's death and goes to shore to apologize to the woman who was left behind, but finds more than he bargained for.


Title: Wordlessly

A/N: This story operates under the premise that Jack did not save Will's life but stabbed Davy Jones' heart and became the Captain of the Dutchman. It takes place 10 years after POTC3 when Jack is able to go ashore for one day. Please review, thanks!

* * *

He had hesitated a moment before he did it. She had seen it in his eyes, and she had known. It didn't have to end and he had the power to make it so. But he did not.

Will Turner died. Elizabeth Turner wept. Jack Sparrow became the captain of the Dutchman and gained immortality. Still, as he sailed the seas, immortal, he sometimes thought of the hysterical, desperate note in her voice as Will died.

Ten years went by without Jack aging a day. He was doing what he wanted, living, staying young, riding the seas as a captain. Oh, there was that little matter of his task of guiding the Dead, but he managed. All play and no work makes Jack… something undesirable. Lazy, perhaps. Ten years went by ad so came the sunset which beckoned Jack to land. In his master scheme, he had imagined himself going ashore and being suddenly mauled by a assortment of "salty wenches." But it wasn't to be that way. When the time came, there was only one woman Jack Sparrow wanted to see.

In a flash of green light, the Flying Dutchman approached land, with its captain at its helm. The crew asked him what he was planning for his day ashore. He answered without giving an answer, but they were accustomed to it. He wondered, however, if he ever gave a true answer to himself.

He found the house where se lived easily, because in it live what he wanted most. The people he talked to on the street assumed that he was drunk, due to his wobbling gait, among other things, and truthfully, he didn't realize that walking on land would have that sort of effect on him. He was ever good at predicting that sort of thing. Night had settled in when he reached her home. It was impressive but not ostentatious, and when he turned around, he could see the sea. She hadn't fled from the ocean, but stayed close to it, and Jack didn't know why. It had taken everything from her. He attributed her decision to the fact that she was female and therefore crazy, which seemed like a fair enough assumption.

The house was gated but he slipped through. Going to the front door and politely knocking was decidedly un-Jack-like, so instead he walked around the house, examining it. A few guesses, a glance at the compass, and another few guesses later, Jack pinpointed the window which he believed to be her bedroom. A observer would think by his actions, shimmying up a tree, walking heel-to-toe, and casually flicking at the closed window, that Jack had some sort of a master plan for entering her room and presenting himself to her. He pulled out his saber, made use of a little thing called leverage, and successfully, though not silently, wrenched the window open. With a graceful jump, he landed in the chamber and glanced around.

The room was dimly lit and it was indeed a bed chamber, and a large one at that. He walked towards the source of the light with his usual meandering gait, looking around with interest. By the time he heard the slight creak of a floorboard behind him, it was too late to do anything but gasp as he was thrown against the wall with a dagger pressed to his throat.

Their eyes met, inches apart from each other, and he could feel the warmth of her breath on his face. It seemed that she did not recognize him.

"Elizabeth, my dear. You haven't changed at all," he drawled.

Her eyes lit with recognition and she moved backwards as quickly as if she had been thrown by the force of his words.

"Jack," she said breathlessly, shock and confusion on her face. She was in her night dress, her hair hanging loose down her back. He thought that she seemed innocent and confounded by his presence. But that was a pretension that lasted only for a second.

"That's me name-" he began, advancing towards here but she cut him off with a laugh, unexpected and sharp.

"You came here? One day ashore in ten years and you use it to come to me? That's more than ironic, Jack, even for you." She shook her head in disbelief, throwing up her hands as she laughed again.

"Oh, you know, I was merely in the neighborhood…"

"No! You weren't! Don't you dare lie to me." Her face darkened and her expression intensified and he saw that she was still filled with fire, ten years later, as she was back then, though perhaps a fire of a different color.

He shrugged, waltzing over towards her night table and examining its contents. "So, Lizzy, how've you been?" He could tell she was at least not overjoyed at his presence, but this slight fact didn't stop him from seating himself in her armchair, stretching his shoulders, and crossing one leg over the other. When she did not respond, he looked up at her. He had expected her to still be beautiful, and she was. HE also expected there to be tension between them over his failure to save Will's life. And that was as far as he had thought into the situation. Their eyes met and he studied her expression, or lack thereof.

"I've been dandy, if you've wondered," he offered. He watched as she seemed to contemplate what to do, say, think, or feel. After a few seconds of deliberation, se seemed to give up, and she sat down in the chair opposite him.

"Oh, you know. Same old," she said in response to his previous question. His eyebrows raised questioningly and it was her turn to shrug.

"Nice place you've got here."

"I inherited my father's fortune," she said in explanation.

"You never married."

She shook her head. "Not again, in any case."

He winced. She had married Will shortly, tragically, before his death. How could he have forgotten that?

"People in town find me a bit strange," she said, leaning forward. She smiled a very small smile.

"Elizabeth," Jack said. She looked at him, waiting. "I know," he paused, "That you know," he hesitated, "That I," he pointed at himself, "Could have prevented the death," another pause, "Of your late husband." He moved in his seat in a manner that could be described as squirming. Then, he was silent.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Thinking!" he stated, massaging his chin. "No. I have something else to say." He stopped and took a breath. "And for the fact that I chose my own selfish eds as opposed to saving Will by granting him immortality as the Dutchman's Captain, I am sincerely and truly sorry." HE realized as he finished that he had been speaking with his eyes closed. It took a serious act of will to force himself to open his eyes and look at her. Elizabeth Turner was shocked, and there was no other word for it. She had realized, as Will died and Jack became Captain, that Jack had chosen his own agenda and knowingly allowed Will to slip away. She had hated him at first, blaming her loneliness and sadness on him, but ten years of living without both Will and Jack had granted her clarity. She no longer hated Jack Sparrow but in her memories she regarded him just as he was- eccentric, confusing, ridiculous, and self-absorbed. It was in Jack's nature to drive the dagger into Davy Jones' heart. Ten years after the fact, she was able to accept what had been done. Never had she once imagined that his action had continued to plague Jack, and that he would ever seek her out and apologize.

As Elizabeth stared at him, Jack stared back. He couldn't read her expression, and thought perhaps that she was planning out the stream of curses that she would use to attack him. He visibly braced himself as she prepared to speak.

"Apology accepted."

"What?" Jack leaped to his feet, first thinking that her anger required his immediate absence, and her lack of fury causing him due confusion.

"I accept your apology, Jack," she repeated, her maturity ringing out in her voice, calm and cool. "And I don't blame you anymore," she continued. "I miss Will. So much. But what's done is done. I'm his widow, and that fact defines me. Seeing him for one day would be heaven, but it's not that way." Her voice was soft and wistful, and in the dim light of the room Jack could see her grief, still fresh, written on her face. He didn't know what to say to her. He had defeated all odd and come back from the dead with this woman at his side. All that they had done seemed simpler and more achievable than finding the right words to say to her at that moment.

It dawned on him, as one of his impossible plans would. Words simply weren't enough. He took a step towards her and she rose to her feet. As he approached her, stopping only inches away, he watched her expression change.

"Jack," she whispered, as his breath warmed her face, still delicate and smooth. "It's not like that anymore." Her eyes closed and she did not move.

"I know, love," he said. "It's like this." He hands, rough and weathered, found their places, pressed against her neck and under her chin. His nose touched hers and he felt her exhale. He waited, only a second, and then she kissed him, her hands clutching the collar of his shirt ad then moving to his hair and face before removing his hat and letting it fall to the floor.

He returned her kiss with a kiss of his own, pulling her to him. He knew, as did she, that what they shared at that moment wasn't lust, but neither was it love in the strictest sense. They kissed each other and clung to each other as if they were meant to be together, but they were not. On that cool, dark night Elizabeth and Jack sought and found in each other someone who understood, who had witnessed each others life, and could therefore give it meaning. He had seen her transform from a stubborn girl to a courageous young woman who could plan, scheme, fight, and who had felt true, heart-wrenching pain. She had seen him die, had been the cause of his death, rather, and she had been there when he returned to the world. He had been there when her Will died, and she had seen him do the one thing that he regretted the most, out of the innumerable regrettable things he had done. They were the ones left, and as they kissed, passionately, hungrily, even lovingly, they shared with each other the baggage they had born for the past ten years. He said to her everything he could never put into words, and she understood, and told him, in her desperate need to be close to him, all that she had gone through alone. It couldn't have been any other way. Ten years would pass and ten years more. And Jack would never think of any woman other than Elizabeth Turner.


End file.
